


if i ever caused you trouble

by becausemagnets



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-28 19:46:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becausemagnets/pseuds/becausemagnets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik is a professional car thief and Charles is still in high school and somehow things are easy without ever being easy and they spend a lot of time in cars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a PWP about Erik having a car because I was sick of him always having a motorcycle and then it turned into, em, this. Sorry in advance. Also, I know nothing about cars.

He had a German car. The expensive kind that Charles had only seen in action films. Charles half-expected him to walk across the front of the car and open the passenger door for a woman with impossibly long legs, an impossibly short dress, and impossibly blond hair, but it was just him. Tall, probably somewhere around six foot, red-brown hair disheveled and starting to curl around his ears, watery blue-green eyes, the kind of jawline that was wholly unfair, belonging more to marble and movie stars than people Charles saw in real life. He was wearing faded blue jeans and a brown leather jacket, sun bleached in spots and torn in others. He leaned against the hood of the car and eased a cigarette out of the pack in his back pocket, flipping open a zippo lighter a few times before actually lighting the end of his cigarette as if he were waiting for someone to come along and ask him for it.

Charles couldn't help himself, not really. The man had this kind of deep magnetic pulse around him that ensnared Charles into its orbit as soon as he heard the screech of the tires on his expensive German car, boring straight into Charles's particular weaknesses in character like an electric drill. The man was certainly not a student, a couple of years too old, and he looked a little too rough for university. Charles walked over, hiking up the strap of his shoulder bag. The man flicked his eyes over him and must have thought Charles was admiring the car, turning away to blow out easy smoke rings.

“I'd like a ride in that,” Charles said nonchalantly, stretching out his fingers towards the car, asking permission to touch. The man shrugged, so Charles touched the black, glossy finish of the car, his finger dragging and _squeaking_ , it was so pristine. “I'm being serious you know.” He tilted his head up, squinting against the sun, hanging low in the late afternoon sky, to try and meet the man's eyes. The man was looking everywhere but directly at him. “I'd do anything to get a ride in this car.”

“I wouldn't say things like that if I were you.” The man's voice was exactly as Charles had imagined, on a low register and rather harsh, his consonants sharp with a slight accent, maybe German like the car, but all of it somehow smooth, going straight from Charles's ears to his groin. The man lifted himself off of the hood of the car and regarded Charles openly for the first time, letting the cigarette burn in his mouth, pushing smoke in a semi-constant stream out of his nose. His stare was cold, but there was an _edge_ there, an undercurrent that made Charles's whole body hum in anticipation. He seemed to be measuring Charles up, but he evidently liked enough of what he saw, one of his eyebrows quirked almost as if he were trying to egg Charles on. So Charles kept coming.

“Oh, and why's that? Do I look easy to take advantage of?” The man shrugged noncommittally, but his lips quirked at the corners. “I wouldn't mind, really. I've never seen a car like this. It's like James Bond's car.”

“It's not mine.” The man fished another cigarette out of his pocket and offered it to Charles. Charles wasn't much of a smoker, but he took it anyway, sticking it between his lips. He leaned forward to get his light. The man smelled like warm copper, cigarettes in enclosed spaces, and salt.

He blew smoke directly into the man's face, smiling coyly. “You won't give me a ride, then?”

“Persistent, aren't you?” The corners of the man's eyes crinkled and he blew smoke back in Charles's face, actually smiling for the first time. The effect was devastating, like a swift kick to the stomach. It lit up his whole face and pulled Charles in, iron to a magnet.

“You have no idea.” He stroked the front of the car again, slowly, acutely aware that the man was watching his fingers. “Charles, by the way. Charles Xavier.” There was no flicker of recognition at the name. Charles was both delighted and slightly peeved; if there was ever a time to use the influence of his dead father's name, now was certainly it. He couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was about the man had him so hooked, because, he would readily admit, the car was merely an excuse to talk to _him_. Certainly there was a hardness there and Charles had gotten in trouble before with an unruly attraction to men with rougher pasts, but there was something else, something more, just under the stainless steel veneer, waiting to be touched, warmed, and brought to the surface. Charles was adept at pulling the best and worst out of people. For some indiscernible reason, Charles felt like this man had so much of both, it was almost his civic duty to find out more.

“Erik.” The man leaned one hip against the car, his body turned toward Charles. He dropped his cigarette butt and rubbed it out with a booted foot. His movements were precise, with an almost cruel grace. Charles felt his cheeks warm and he nearly choked, inhaling smoke instead of pushing it out, distracted.

“Just Erik, then?” He beat a fist to his chest, clearing the smoke out of his lungs without coughing too badly.

The man tilted his head and plucked the cigarette from between Charles's fingers, taking over from there with a quirked eyebrow and a perfect smoke ring. “Better leave it that way, yeah.”

“So about that ride.” Charles shifted closer, dragging his toes across the asphalt of the parking lot.

The man—Erik—rolled his eyes, but stubbed out Charles's cigarette, too. He bent across the hood of the car (Charles did his best not to stare at the broad expanse of his shoulders and the small line of exposed skin above his waistline as his jacket rode up his back) and opened the door for Charles, straightening up before taking a mock bow. “After you, my lady.”

Charles climbed in the car and tried not to let it take his breath away. He ran his hands over the leather of the seat before he sat down, the dashboard glowing blue even in the daylight. The speedometer went up to 250, a number certainly not legal on any road on the planet, even the Autobahn. Erik got in and pressed a couple of buttons, the roof folding down smoothly behind them. He grinned over at Charles indulgently before tapping the built-in GPS. “Where are we headed, then?”

“Oh, I don't know. Anywhere.”

–

Anywhere turned out to be a burnt down service station about an hour outside of town. The sun was setting over the charred metal, the road empty of cars, a few houses silhouetted against the quickly fading blue of the sky. Erik had slipped on a pair of aviator sunglasses as soon as they pulled out of the parking lot, smiling so easily it made Charles heart skip a beat. His hair blew slightly against his temples, barely stirring even when they hit the nearly empty two lane highway. He seemed tense, his shoulders a tight line and his movements quick, succinct, but he drove as if the car were an extension of his own body, with all of the smooth, coiled grace Charles's had noticed back at school. He wasn't much of a conversationalist, but Charles didn't mind, using the mostly comfortable silence to get his vital signs under control. The interior of the car was small, a two-seater convertible, and whenever Erik moved the stick shift, his long fingers would brush against Charles's knee, barely more than a whisper across the fabric of his pants, but enough to feel his whole body ignite, anticipating the next time Erik would have to shift gears. And though Charles, in a stark attempt at rebellion against his upbringing, took no stock in the status of material possessions, the car itself had its own kind of sex appeal, purring almost erotically underneath them, only intensifying the heavy, heady feeling growing between them.

“There's this, ah, gas station, burnt down at the end of the road. Want to stop there?” Erik sounded distant, lost. Charles swallowed around his throat, his mouth so dry his tongue was sticking to his teeth, the back of his mouth tasting like ash and coppery fear. He didn't know what he was afraid of—getting into a car with a total stranger wasn't even an entirely new occurrence in his life—but he was struck again by the great capacity for good and much, much worse in this man. He sensed something else, too—a hesitation he hadn't noticed before. Erik was well aware he was teetering on the edge and he felt that every move would tip him over to one side or the other. Charles wished it were that simple. For anybody.

“That sounds brilliant.” Charles reclined in his seat, aware of Erik's eyes on the side of his face. He tilted his head up against the leather, exposing a long line of neck as he sighed heavily. “Thanks for this.” He meant to be politely appreciative, but it came out painfully earnest. He could almost _feel_ Erik recoil, though he didn't move. He didn't say anything, his mouth a thin line.

Charles sat on the hood of the car at the service station while Erik moved aside the warped and melted panel of what used to be a steel-framed door, stepping out of sight. “What are you doing?” Charles called after him, vaguely amused by the whole venture. In its own way, it was rather a charming spot, almost romantic if you didn't think too much about the implications. Erik emerged with sodas, warm, and a bag of Twizzlers, already tearing into the packaging as he stepped over the charred metal in front of the door. He kicked off his boots and joined Charles on the hood of the car, taking off his sunglasses and tucking them into the zippered pocket on his jacket. There were patchy holes in the toes of his black socks. Charles took one of the proffered sodas, taking a long drink before wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at the abandoned, burnt gas pumps, all of the nozzles detached from the hoses. Even the concrete was scorched. “How'd you find this spot, then?”

“Saw it when I drove into town. You—uh—you aren't from here, are you? I mean, your accent.”

“It's not _that_ pronounced, is it?” Erik shrugged, his lips twitching up again. He furrowed his brow. Charles got the impression that Erik wasn't much for casual conversation because he was out of practice—through no choice of his own—not used to people attempting to reach out. It did a strange thing to Charles's heart, almost like a hiccup or a hitched heart beat. “My parents are from England. We used to go back quite a bit, but.”

Charles trailed off. He didn't like to talk about his father, generally because it was a mood killer, but also because he felt uncomfortable with any expression of sympathy. It was a uniquely solitary experience to lose a parent young, the deceased becoming more fiction than reality, and Charles knew the dangers of getting lost in that kind of dream. His father's death had little effect on his life—he had few memories of him, most of them only aided by looking at photographs—and it had even littler effect on the deep loneliness that had permeated his early childhood, only broken up by the arrival of his step-sister. It was hard to express how much he didn't want it permanently defining all of his actions from that point on.

“What?” Erik's voice was soft, insistent only in not being so. His brow furrowed deeper, his genuine concern apparent despite his best efforts to conceal it.

“My dad—died,” Charles said abruptly, taking a quick swig of warm Mountain Dew to wash the taste of the words out of his mouth. Erik stiffened for a moment, but then relaxed, more than he had the entire car ride.

“My parents are dead, too.” A shadow flashed across Erik's eyes, now more grey than blue, but he didn't elaborate, a tick jumping in his jaw. Charles only nodded, chewing pensively on some Twizzlers, feeling raw and exposed.

Charles wasn't a particularly good judge of character, or rather, he sort of accepted people in totality, continually counting on the fact that their good qualities would shine through with more frequency than their bad ones despite the fact that he'd been proven wrong over and over again, and he'd certainly fallen in with the wrong sort of people, too quickly, in the past. But for some reason, he felt a level of comfort with Erik, an intimacy beyond their hour and a half of acquaintanceship, as if he could reach out and touch Erik's heart, know everything about him without even trying. It scared him slightly how much he felt the reverse was true as well. Though he did his best to exude frankness, it was mostly a ploy to win trust without keeping it. Charles was a fairly closed book. He carefully calculated how much he could get away with revealing, but he'd already shown more pages than he normally did and they'd barely spoken.

“Are you German? Like the car?” Charles rapped his knuckles against the hood and Erik actually laughed, low in his throat, his eyes unnervingly locked on Charles.

“Yes. Well, my parents were German. My mother never learned to speak English, so that's why—”

“Your accent.” Charles grinned, offering Erik a Twizzler. Apparently without thinking, Erik bit it, his lips brushing against Charles's finger. Charles's eyes went wide and his mouth felt dry again. He dropped the bit of Twizzler still between his finger and thumb and Erik hastily brushed it off of the hood of the car, turning away from Charles, his body language more angry than embarrassed. Charles pushed passed his shock and smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way, taking another Twizzler out of the bag and hitting Erik on the arm with it. The sexuality didn't bother him—after all, the ride he'd been looking for had less to do with convertibles and more to do with bedsprings—but Erik's reaction perturbed him a little. Charles looked younger than he was, wide eyed and lanky, still needing to grow into his frame, but certainly not _criminally_ young. And he'd been rather transparent about his own intentions and if he wasn't mistaken, Erik _had_ returned the flirty jibes, but now he was sitting rim rod straight, drinking his own Mountain Dew like he could will it into being something quite a bit stronger. “It's all right, you know.” Erik merely murmured darkly. “So I'm guessing you stole this car then?”

Erik started, whipping his head around to look at Charles almost predatorily. Charles didn't react, more fascinated than anything else, tilting his chin up defiantly. Erik finally shook his head, his lips twitching up again. Charles ridiculously thought about telling him that he should smile more, detailing exactly what it did to his viscera, but he knew how well that would go over. Erik was as good at receiving compliments as he was at making passes. “Yes, I did. Does that bother you?”

“Not in the slightest.” Erik's eyebrow raised as he looked disbelievingly at Charles and something _sank_ in his eyes, softening them beyond belief. Charles laughed, batting Erik's arm with a Twizzler again. “Is that surprising? I'd have thought I was more transparent than all that. I was hoping I was coming off as a cad. I mean, I don't know many people who go off with blokes just because they like bloody _cars_.”

Erik's jaw tensed and he jerked his head away, turning forward. He pushed air of his nose, somewhere between a scoff and sigh. “I'm not who you think I am,” he said simply.

Charles unconsciously moved closer, the bag of Twizzlers crinkling as it got caught between them. Erik tensed (Charles didn't think it was even possible, but his back seized up even higher, his shoulders drawing closer together, sticking out through the layers of clothes), but he didn't move away, which Charles considered significant progress. “And who's that then? Look—Erik. I don't know you, not really, but I have this _feeling_ —no, listen to me—I have this feeling that you're someone, someone like me. And it's not so often you find people who accept you for who you are without even...” He stumbled over his words, trying to properly express the feeling rising in his gut, an iron certainty, without scaring the other man away. He wanted more than anything to touch Erik's temples and send him the swelling in his chest, let it wash over both of them like a tidal wave. “I feel like you know me. And I feel like I know you. And for as stupid as it is to get in cars with strangers and go to burned down petrol stations in the middle of nowhere, I never felt for a moment that I was anything but safe with you. So I don't give a fuck if you steal cars and I don't care about what you've done before you got here, you're here now and so am I and that's all that matters.”

“You're stupider than you look, Charles Xavier.” He sounded serious at first, but then he laughed. Hard, laying back against the car, his socked feet hitting the ground so he wouldn't slide off. Charles clapped him huffily on the chest, but he kept laughing after a wheeze, his whole body shaking. Charles quirked a smile, watching the sun set behind them, a markedly Western sun for upper New York.

“If only that was the first time I'd heard that.” He slid down on the hood a little, mirroring Erik's body position, reaching up behind his head to grab a few Twizzlers. He propped himself up on his elbow, shoving two of them in Erik's mouth, laughing as he sputtered. Erik chewed them slowly, glaring melodramatically at Charles as he lay back. “So did you steal the car out of spite or necessity?” He twirled a Twizzler in the air, absently, turning, his cheek pressed against the smooth metal of the car, watching Erik's eyelashes as he blinked. Erik's eyes slid to the side for a second, flickering over him like a lightbulb about to go out.

“I steal cars, em, professionally, you could say. Masquerade as a valet, steal the car, get new plates and some specialized auto body work to remove some serial numbers, sell it to someone else.” In some respects, Charles felt like every revelation of Erik's was meant to push Charles farther away, a silent challenge, and based on all of his knee jerk reactions to Charles's persistent attempts to learn more about him, it had worked well for him in the past. But Charles had _seen_ Erik drive that car, recognizing a nearly lethal confidence in him, in stark contrast to this deeply imbedded defense mechanism. It was like walking through a labyrinth, every word out of Erik's mouth a new hedge springing up to obscure the glimpse of glittering gold Charles had seen in the center of the maze, though Erik probably thought he was only hiding the Minotaur.

“That's fantastic.” Erik scoffed, pulling the half-chewed Twizzlers out of his mouth to argue, but Charles persisted. “No, really. You're the Robin Hood of ludicrously expensive cars. It suits you.”

“It's not all of that.” Erik finished his Twizzlers before continuing, pulling his knees up to get his feet on the car, latching his toes on the grille. “It's just a way to make money, bide my time. I feel like you've got this notion that I'm some petty criminal with a heart of gold, waiting to be plucked out from obscurity and reformed. It's not like that. I'm not a good person, Xavier, and I'm not sorry. We aren't all meant to be.”

“You're _wrong_.” He hadn't meant to put so much weight behind it. Erik jumped a little, then propped himself up on his elbows. His eyes were stone cold again and it bothered Charles—how quickly he could shut down. He'd felt like they were getting somewhere, meeting on a middle ground, and Erik had disregarded it all, burnt it up without care. “You're dead wrong. There's good in you—good in everyone—you just have to know what you're looking for. I said I don't care what you've done. And I don't. Tell me or don't, it will not change my opinion of you. I know what you're capable of and I'm telling you, you're capable of so much more than you know.”

“What about what I'm planning to do? Do you care about that?” Erik was leaning towards Charles now, looming over him, his breath hot on Charles's face. Charles titled his chin up again, pressing his lips together tightly so they wouldn't quiver. He hadn't been lying when he said he felt safe with Erik, he did, but that wasn't to say he didn't have a healthy fear of the situation—they were miles outside of proper civilization and he had sensed an unmitigated cruelty in Erik, had actually been attracted to it, but there was a difference between it simmering under the surface and it bubbling over. It was certainly bubbling over now. He seemed more beast than man, his face inches away from Charles's, his teeth bared.

“ _No_.” He whispered it, barely opening his mouth. He grabbed at the collar of Erik's jacket, rubbing the well-worn leather with his thumbs, expecting Erik to jerk away, but Erik stayed, breathing hard, practically snarling his frustration at Charles. Charles leaned up, lifting his shoulder blades off of the hood, and pressed his lips against Erik's, fitting his top lip over Erik's bottom. Erik tensed, but Charles held him in, moving one hand to the back of his head, tangling it up in his short curls, making soft, reassuring sounds. He opened his mouth, hoping Erik would follow suit, but he remained tight-lipped, all of the predatory grace of a moment before replaced with an unmoving rigidity, as if Charles had petrified him. Charles made a sound somewhere between a keen and a growl in the back of his throat, hitching his hips up, tugging at one side of Erik's jacket, trying to illicit a response, any response. Erik finally parted his lips and Charles sighed into his mouth, running his tongue along Erik's bottom lip. He jerked again, but Charles was ready for him, pulling on him hard enough for him to lose his balance, right hip colliding with Charles left as their chests pressed flush. He took advantage of the shock, tangling their tongues and hitching his hips up again, twining his legs with Erik's. Something seemed to _break_ inside Erik, his shoulders slumping almost into themselves, and he returned the kiss much more gently than Charles expected, getting a hand between their bodies to hold Charles's hips down against the car. He was almost careful, frustratingly, his tongue running slowly along Charles's bottom lip experimentally before he ran it along the inside of Charles's cheeks, breathing hard out of his nose. Charles bit Erik's tongue, hoping to draw out some of his rage, but Erik almost patiently chastised him, tugging sharply at his hair. Charles jerked his head away and Erik fastened his mouth to his neck, leaving a mark before licking a stripe from his collarbone to his earlobe. Charles hips jerked up involuntarily against Erik's hands and that seemed to finally shatter the illusion.

Erik lifted himself off of Charles, running a hand through his hair as he looked straight up, the sky now a deep purple like a healing bruise. Charles wiped at his mouth, but he didn't say anything, watching Erik scramble to get his boots, knocking over his Mountain Dew. “You should probably be getting home now, yeah?”

“That's not really what I had in mind, no.” Charles drew his knees up to his chest, mostly to mask the effect of tongue on skin, though Erik had probably felt it in that last sputter.

“Look.” Erik glanced up over his shoulder, tying the laces of his boots. His hands were shaking. “I know why you came out here with me, but I—I can't. So I'll just take you home and that'll be the end of it.”

“If you knew why I came out here, why did you take me?” Erik paused, holding his laces in a half knot. “You want it too, I don't understand why you're fighting this so hard. I'm not proposing you become a permanent fixture in my life, I'm merely suggesting you fuck me stupid on the hood of a car. Certainly you can manage that.”

“I don't _want_ to fuck you stupid on the hood a car! You—you—Fuck.” Erik gave up on his boot laces, standing up properly, though his shoulders slumped forward protectively. Charles felt like he was staring into an exposed crack, something valuable missing from Erik's eyes when they met his. “Bad things happen to people I—get close to. I don't want bad things to happen to you.”

“Nothing is going to happen to me.” Charles felt that hitch in heart again, a burgeoning fondness that he wished he could contain. Though he'd certainly tried, Charles had never been in love, too concerned with doing mental gymnastics and staying a step ahead of his partners, losing interest fast when all of the mystery was gone. He knew he was young enough that it shouldn't matter, but he felt defective, watching his classmates proudly declare that their flights of fancy were deep, heartfelt sentiments. This little sputtered heartbeat, hardly more than a tick in his pulse, was as close as Charles had come and he was loathe to let that walk out of his life unexplored, unexamined. “I may look innocent—”(Erik scoffed at that, smiling a little despite himself), “— but I'm not, really. I can handle more than you think.”

“I believe that.” Erik dropped his boots into the passenger seat, keeping his distance from Charles. “You're capable of more than you know, too, Charles. You shouldn't throw yourself around so easily.”

Charles was, for the first time in his life, at a loss for words. He stretched his legs out and and watched the stars peak out, the sun still clinging to the last remnant of the day. “Let's take you home, then,” Erik said softly, opening the door for him.

The car had lost its appeal for him, leaving him as cold as its owner. He felt jilted, certainly, but more than that, he felt _desperate_ and that was unfamiliar. One of his character defects was using sex as his lead foot and without it as a solid base, he felt lost at sea. For as much as he had learned about Erik, he felt that much more distant, trapped in his thoughts and a new sense of unease. He punched the mansion's address into the GPS so he wouldn't have to speak to Erik, crossing his arms over his chest, watching suburban New York spring up out of nowhere.

“Charles. I can't help feeling like I've done something wrong—”

“Whatever gave you that impression?” He tried to make it sound harmless, but he could judge its success by the tick in Erik's jaw.

“I'm sorry if my, em, refusal came off as rejection, because I do—I mean, I would—but, it just seemed impractical.”

“Impractical? Sex is _always_ impractical. It's in its very nature to be impractical. And it's not that, not really. It's...” _It's fear_ , he thought wildly. _You're afraid of me and I'm afraid of me and it's a fucking anchor, holding us both down._ “Will I see you again? You're not going to run off with a newly stolen car and disappear, are you?”

The corners of Erik's eyes crinkled and he reached over to ruffle Charles's hair. Charles huffed, smoothing it back against his scalp, but he couldn't help the little hitch in his heart again, this time even making its way to his lungs, a hiccuping gasp escaping his lips. “No, I'll be around for awhile. Staying in a hotel about ten miles or so away from your school. There's a good market around here, can't pass up the opportunity.” Charles felt like there was more to that story, but he didn't press.

Erik's mouth practically fell open when they drove up to the mansion. “You live _here_?” He didn't drive all the way up the long driveway, stopping before the curve that led up to the front door. He let the car stall, gaping at all of the windows, his head tilted up.

“Quant, isn't it? Brian Xavier's architectural masterpiece. Want to come in? I'll give you a tour. It'll even include more than my bedroom.”

Erik actually laughed, a good sign that he wouldn't hold Charles's sullenness against him. “Better not. Maybe another time.”

Charles pressed a kiss to Erik's cheek, slow and careful, before opening the door and climbing out of the car, feeling oddly exposed. He grabbed his bag, swinging it over his shoulder. “So you'll be around, then?”

“I'll be around.”

Charles watched the car for as long as he could, disappearing and reemerging around bends and dips in the long road, face pressed up against the glass of the window in what used to be his father's study.

–

Erik was waiting for him, leaning on the hood of a brand new silver BMW with a cigarette between his lips, Charles's favorite afternoon mirage, all long legs and leather and the flash of sunlight off of his aviator shades. Charles kept his distance at first, knowing full-well he was practically beaming, drinking in the sight. He knew how often Erik kept promises—could sense it in his voice yesterday before he drove away from the mansion. He didn't. But here he was, more perfect than Charles's imagination.

They wound up back at the service station, legs tangled together in the generous backseat of the BMW. They would have been comfortable if Erik wasn't so lengthy, his legs slotted on either side of Charles's, pinning them both to opposite doors. They were passing a flask Erik had taken out of the glove compartment, peppermint schnapps that had been in there for a while, sickly sweet with a metallic edge. Charles wanted to taste it secondhand off of Erik's tongue, but he resisted temptation, basking in the growing warmth spreading from the base of his stomach to his toes.

“This is illegal, you know,” Charles chastised as Erik handed him the flask, deliberately brushing his fingers over Charles's. It was only four in the afternoon on a Wednesday and Charles knew he was close to crossing the line from pleasantly tipsy to hopelessly drunk, but he found that he couldn't care less, feeling as though he were living in a moment that would stretch on forever, uninterrupted, the kind of day he knew only existed while misspending youth.

Erik raised an eyebrow, lifting his hips as he adjusted slightly, his knees knocking with Charles's. “I thought you had enough experience to counterbalance what a horrible influence I am.”

Charles took a long swig, registering Erik's eyes on his throat like heat, burning up and down every time Erik blinked. He wiped at the mouth with the back of his hand, dragging his thumb on his bottom lip long enough to draw Erik's eyes upwards, noting the way Erik's pupils blew out, all dark. “I have enough experience to be a horrible influence in my own right.”

He grinned when Erik's own easy smile faltered. Erik cleared his throat, pressing a fist to his mouth as Charles leaned forward to hand him the flask, rubbing his thumb on the underside of Erik's wrist. “I don't doubt that.” He cleared his throat again, averting his eyes from Charles's, shifting around, his knee colliding with Charles's hard enough to knock his leg off of the seat. Erik grabbed his ankle, roughly, returning Charles's leg to its original position. In fact, he pulled it even tighter against his side, trapping Charles's foot underneath him.

“Are you a big drinker, then?” Charles pried the flask greedily from Erik's fingers, plucking them off one at a time. Erik rolled his eyes, but let him take it, watching his lips and throat like a hawk again. Charles lifted his leg, the one not currently tucked under Erik, toes digging into the leather of the seat, and put it in Erik's lap, daring him to move it as he wiped at his mouth. Erik shifted, but didn't move Charles's foot, instead wrapping his fingers delicately around Charles's socked ankle.

“Not really, no. It's had its uses when I couldn't get _things_ out of my head.” A shadow flickered across his face, the same nameless shadow Charles sensed behind nearly everything Erik said, the deep, dark reason they were sitting in a stolen car at a burnt down service station. “But I prefer mostly to be clear headed and in control of my faculties, so.” He ran his fingers up under Charles's pant leg, his fingers cold and deliciously smooth against Charles's bare skin. Charles shuddered, all the warmth of the alcohol leaving his blood stream quickly.

“Well, I'm as well known for being a lush as for being a flirt, so.” Charles tipped his head back and finished off the flask, letting it drop, empty, to the floor of the car. Erik's hand was close to his knee, progress impeded by the tight bunching of Charles's jeans. Charles shifted, his leg tingling in every place Erik had touched him. “Is this some ploy to get me out of these, then?”

Erik laughed lightly before withdrawing his hand, patting Charles on the shin. “Hardly need a ploy to do that, if I'm not mistaken. But no, it wasn't. I'd like you to keep your pants on for the time being. It's just... It's been a long time since I had... this. You know, the talking and—” he gestured vaguely, his hands casting shadows across most of his face. Charles nodded, although he had only the vaguest idea what Erik meant. “It's easy, like this, isn't it? I've had to work so hard to get—get this and to have someone just walk across a parking lot and the next day feel like I've known you for a thousand years. It's nice.”

Charles heart hiccuped, crawling all the way up his throat in a strangled noise. He tilted his head up against the glass of the window, both of his feet solidly hitting the arm rest of the door Erik was leaning against. Erik shifted to accommodate him, his hips or his back cracking, what Charles could see of his face slightly concerned, worried he'd crossed a line. Charles reached out vaguely, digging his fingers into Erik's shin, trying to communicate that it was just the opposite without having to open his mouth. Erik didn't get the message, jerking his leg away. “That's the most beautiful thing anyone's ever said to me.”

“People must say some ugly things to you, then.”

–

Erik's hotel room was sparse, plain, and Charles got the distinct impression that was as he liked it, generic and impersonal, the same thing day in and day out, all over the country, always waiting for him. It took Charles two more trips up to the service station to convince Erik to take him somewhere new, but Erik hadn't much liked the idea of going for pizza or ice cream or normalcy, so they ended up in his hotel room, Erik sitting in the arm chair that overlooked the window's view of the parking lot, Charles sprawled out on the bed, watching him. “Will you teach me to drive?” Charles asked, stretching languidly, yawning dramatically to draw Erik's attention, but Erik was brooding, staring out at the shiny black Mercedes he'd picked Charles up in that day. “Erik, I'm being serious. I'd like to learn.”

“Sure. Tomorrow. I'll get an automatic for you. Stick shifts are difficult.” His shoulders were a tight line, drawn up, a shield. Charles knew Erik was trying to protect him from his thoughts, but it left Charles feeling trapped, caged—the only intimacy they shared were careful glimpses into the inner sanctities of each other's minds and when Erik kept that from Charles, he felt as if something vital had been severed. Usually so clean-shaven, it was obvious Erik hadn't touched a razor in a few mornings, red obscuring the sharp cut of his jaw. Charles couldn't say it didn't add another dimension of ruggedness to his looks, but he knew that something was wrong, an imbalance in Erik's world that he felt, absurdly, like he would do anything to set right.

“I expect I could manage a stick shift all right. I could show you, if you'd like.”

He got to his feet and stepped slowly toward Erik, almost as if he were moving underwater, expecting the other man to stop him at any moment, but Erik never looked away from the window, surveying, although nothing had changed since the moment they had entered the room, now nearly an hour ago. He dropped to his knees, shuffling the rest of the way to Erik's chair. Erik's eyes met his and it felt like his entire body had suddenly been submerged in ice water, cold even underneath his skin, the air kicked solidly out of his lungs. Charles recovered, sputtering as if he'd broken the surface, his breath coming out slow, a fight. His heart was hammering in his ears and he placed his shaking hands on Erik's thighs, nosing along the inseam of Erik's pants, waiting waiting waiting for Erik to pull away from him. He didn't, only betraying that he knew Charles was there by tightening his grip on the arm rests, his knuckles white against the blackened oak. Charles paused, centimeters away from the crotch of Erik's pants, breathing hard and fast against the fabric, then mouthed it generously, fingers kneading mercilessly into Erik's thighs. One of Erik's hands snapped to the back of Charles's head, pushed, insistently, and then Charles was tonguing his zipper, watching Erik's eyes turn all black, bottomless pupil before he let his loll back, shoving his hips up as his hand pressed down more firmly on the nape of Charles's neck. Erik's knee jerked up, hitting Charles squarely in the chest and actually winding him, when Charles's attempted to tug that zipper down.

Charles sat back, coughing. Erik looked mortally wounded and he leaned over, folding at the waist, his hand light as a feather at Charles's shoulder, nothing like the hand at the back of his neck. “Charles, Charles, I'm sorry.” His eyes were pleading, back to their watery gray-blue, and Charles felt some of his own shock and hostility ebb off as Erik's fingers sank in, his touch more substantial as Charles recovered. Charles took his time to catch his breath, watching every flicker of Erik's face. There was lust, certainly. Guilt. Embarrassment. Shame. And, oddly, rage.

“It's all right,” Charles finally breathed, his voice stronger than he expected. “You could warn me next time, though.”

“I should have never let you—All of this was really a bad idea. I think—taking you here—giving you the impression that I'm—that this. Charles, I'm sorry. I'll just.”

He stood up in one, quick smooth motion, as if he'd never been sitting at all, running a hand through his hair, but Charles latched onto his pants at the shin. “No, you're not going anywhere. You at least owe me an explanation. I understand that getting close to people isn't your thing, that you don't do this, but you _wanted_ it, Erik. I hadn't even really touched you and you—you _responded_ , you weren't fighting me. And I've been perfectly understanding to this point, haven't I? Sit down and tell me about it, Erik, please.”

Erik sank back down and Charles released his pants, smoothing out the creases in the pleats. He sat back on his heels, but made no move toward the bed, enjoying their uneven footing for the moment. He felt like every moment since Erik had pulled away from him that first night had been leading up to this. Charles, who had never left himself exposed with anyone, had given Erik everything he could, letting Erik touch him along all of his fault lines, but anytime Charles tried to return the favor, maybe ease some of his burden, Erik would draw further away, assuring Charles that he had nothing to show for his efforts, for all of his restraint. He had never tried to pry and it would have been so _easy_ to push along those exposed scars until he had Erik begging, but he hadn't, he hadn't, for the first time in his life, he hadn't, and Erik was still slipping through his fingers like sand. He had been patient, as patient as he could, afraid that if he tipped Erik too far, this tenuous thing between them, as thin and necessary as a spiderweb, would tear.

“What do you know about sex, hm?”

Charles swallowed around a lump in his throat, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Erik sounded so _cruel_ , all the usual smoothness and cadence in his voice gone. Charles ordinarily would have answered the question with something glib and sarcastically forthright, but he couldn't, frozen by Erik's tone and the seething undercurrent of his intention. He meant to degrade and belittle Charles, to cut him down. “I—I know _enough_. I'm not a virgin. I just want to make you—make you feel good, that's all.”

Charles almost threw up when Erik smiled at him, all teeth and condemnation. “You think you sucking me off would make me feel good? That was your only hope? You don't want anything out of it? You have no ulterior motive?”

“I—no.” Charles reached out instinctively, but Erik's lip curled up and he let his hand fall, rubbing his fist against the fabric of his pants. His heart was thudding, audible and liquid in his ears. He wasn't afraid, not for his safety in any case, but he was cautious, aware that any misstep could shatter all of the careful groundwork he'd laid to get to this moment. “I don't, Erik, believe me. I'm not _using_ you, I want to do this for you. I want us to do this—together.”

There was an audible click as Erik swallowed, his hands fists on top of the arm rests. “I don't want to.” There wasn't any strength behind his voice, but he might as well have yelled at Charles. Charles winced, breathing hard as if he had to breath around a bullet wound. It shouldn't matter—he didn't value sex more than his friendship with Erik, but he'd been _craving_ it more than he should; all of his fantasies turned into flashes of Erik's jawline against his, the way Erik's skin would taste against his tongue, Erik's smell on his clothes the next day. He knew that it would be unlike anything that came before, the way sex was meant to be. Because Charles _had_ used people in the past, sex the gateway to abusing their feelings, gaining a hold over them. It had never been mutual, always one-sided and empty, and Charles had never, not even for a second, wanted that with Erik, no matter how transparent he'd been about his intentions.

“Why not?” He knew he should have been understanding, but he was blinded with an unfamiliar rage, his heart thudding underneath his tongue, his blood still hot and loud in his ears. “Why _not_ , Erik?”

“Because I don't want to _hurt_ you.” He spat it out, but it was barely more than a whisper. He thumped one of his fists against the arm rest and turned away from Charles, clenching his jaw.

Charles scrambled forward, trying not to laugh in relief. He pressed his cheek against Erik's thigh, wrapping his arms around Erik's calves. Erik tensed, but didn't lash out, a low rumble in his chest resonating through Charles's frame. “Is that all? Erik, you won't hurt me. You can't. I've done—these things before, quite a few times actually. You won't hurt me.”

“Show me.” Charles almost didn't catch it, rubbing his face against muscle not unlike a cat. Erik clamped a hand on the base of his neck and pulled him up, fingers so long they tucked under Charles's jaw. Charles sputtered, gasping a little at the shine in Erik's eyes, this expression of stark wonder mingled with a banal lust that seemed even deeper and darker than Charles's own. Charles pressed the heel of his hand against the front of Erik's pants, but Erik caught his wrist, turning it over so his hand would flop useless.

“Show you what?” His tongue felt fuzzy, heavy around his teeth. One of Erik's hands was latched under his jaw now, stretching his chin up to expose a long line of neck, the collar of his cardigan askew enough to show a line of clavicle, too.

“Show me what you want. How to make sure I don't hurt you.”

“On you?” Charles tried to turn his wrist over again, but Erik's fingers dug in, steel against bone. Charles winced, hissing in a breath, but pressed himself closer against Erik's legs.

“No. On yourself.”

Charles pulled back, laying back against the carpet and only propping himself up on his elbows. He couldn't deny that Erik's little whimper of protest was satisfying, but he remained focused. He suspected that Erik wasn't a virgin either, but that his sexual experience had been even worse than most of Charles's, violent clashes that almost certainly hadn't been for Erik's benefit. He now wanted more than anything to make this memorable, to change the associations in Erik's mind, replace them with only himself. He arched his back, pressing his hand against the front of his own pants, palming himself slowly. “You could touch me like this or...” Charles slowly unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants, only exaggerating his sigh slightly as he ran his fingers over his boxer shorts. “Are you watching?” He lifted his head off of the carpet, hooking both of his hands under his waistband. He almost groaned at the look on Erik's face—he was most certainly watching, his attention rapt and unwavering, as though he'd never blink. His lips were slightly parted and his chest was rising up and down in an uneven rhythm, winded. His eyes were almost comically wide, but so blazingly green it negated the effect, leaning forward, feet spread apart, knuckles white on the arm of the chair again.

Charles shoved his pants and shorts down to his thighs, shivering when the cool air hit his bare skin. He licked one his palms, all the way to the tips of his fingers. “Helps.” He pushed his cardigan up a bit, giving Erik more to look at. His eyes skidded up from Charles's newly revealed skin to his eyes, locking there, something close to fear pushing through all of the lust. Charles wrapped his hand around the base of his cock and jerked his hips up, groaning, resisting temptation to shut his eyes, watching the effect on Erik. “Want you to do this. Please, Erik.”

Erik stood, running a hand through his hair, breath coming out in quick, rattling rasps. He dropped to his knees and crawled over Charles's body, rubbing his nose against his cheek before drawing back to lick his palm, even more obscenely than Charles had just done, sucking on his fingertips. Charles nodded, angling his hips up so his cock pressed against Erik's thigh. Erik pushed his hips down with his other hand and then slowly, slowly dropped his spit-slick hand down, curling his fingers around Charles delicately. Charles gasped and tried to lift his hips again, the carpet tickling his bare backside, but Erik held him there, hand impossibly warm against Charles's hip joint. He stroked Charles once, achingly slow, and Charles whimpered, pressing the heel of his hand into his eye. “Like this?” Erik ducked his head down, whispering hot and wet into Charles's ear.

“F—faster. Like that, but faster.” Erik complied, but he was still so slow, so careful, barely doing more than teasing Charles. Charles kept squirming against the iron hold on his hip, grabbing at the back of Erik's legs, slotted at either side of his own. “Erik, God, so good, so good, but please—faster. _Harder_.”

Charles moved his hands up to Erik's shoulders, sinking in hard enough to bruise, when he finally got his entire hand around Charles's cock, hand unfathomably warm, and he started stroking in time with Charles's breathing, flicking his wrist mercilessly, eyelashes tickling Charles's cheek as he pressed hot, wet kisses to his jaw. “Fuck, Erik, just, can I—your hand. Can I lift my hips? I want to—your _hand_.” Erik let him go, pressing his palm flat against the carpet, sucking a wet spot onto Charles's neck. Charles groaned and started moving his hips in time with Erik's hand, getting his hands under Erik's shirt to dig into the corded muscle of his back for better leverage. Erik moaned against his skin and Charles felt like that was the tipping point, stilling his hips, fingernails digging into Erik's shoulder blades. “Oh God, Erik, I'm gonna—if you don't want me to, just stop and I'll finish—Oh God, _stop_ right now if you don't want—”

He came into Erik's hand, slumping against the carpet, breathing hard enough that his chest pressed into Erik's every time his lungs filled up with air. Erik drew back, his eyes wide again and his jaw slack, gaze darting all over Charles's face as if he wanted to catalogue everything. Charles smoothed his hands down Erik's back, making sure he didn't leave any marks. Erik drew his hand up to his mouth and licked it clean without shame. Charles swallowed, his mouth suddenly bone dry. He hadn't expected that. “That—that didn't hurt, right? That was good, right?”

“So good. I didn't hurt you, did I?” Charles ran his fingers over Erik's shoulder blades, checking for indentations from his fingernails. He hadn't raked them, but he had been squeezing pretty hard. Erik shook his head, dipping down to catch Charles in a kiss, the slow, lingering kind without any intent. Charles ran his fingers through Erik's hair, noting the sweat starting to bead at his forehead. “What about you, then?” Charles canted his hips, pressing his leg against the tented front of Erik's pants. Erik gasped against his mouth, grinding his hips down against Charles's leg hard enough to press them both flat. “You want me to take care of you like that? I can do anything you want me to, Erik. _Anything_.”

“Can you—like that.” Charles rubbed his leg up against Erik, running his hands up and down Erik's back under his shirt. “Is that—is that all right?”

Charles slid his hand under the waistband of Erik's pants, pressing down to angle Erik's hips better against his thigh. “Whatever you want.”

Erik knocked Charles's leg away and for a second, Charles thought he was going to stand up. He coughed, protest caught on his tongue, but Erik grabbed Charles's legs, pulling them apart and tugged him forward across the carpet, lifting his hips and positioning Charles's legs around his own waist. “Like this? Can I?” He rolled his hips up into Charles, the zipper of his pants scratching a line on Charles's bare ass. Charles hissed, but nodded. Erik held tightly onto Charles's arms and rocked into him again, making a strangled noise when Charles angled his hips down, pressing more firmly against him, squirming a bit. Erik's hips hitched up again and then he sort of lost it, _snapping_ his hips against Charles, one his hands fisted in the tangle of pants still trapped around Charles's thighs. Charles forgot entirely about the scrape of the zipper, pushing Erik's shirt up until it caught underneath his armpits, running his hands all over. “Charles, fuck.” Erik turned his head to catch Charles's lips, kissing him much more fiercely than he ever had before, smashing their mouths together, all teeth and tongue and loud smacks. Erik went still against Charles, moaning loudly into Charles's mouth, his hands like a vice on Charles's waist. “ _Fuck_ ,” he breathed when he pulled back with a loud smack, his lips wet and shiny, his pupils blown black, his hair disheveled, bangs hanging loosely around his face, no longer smoothly pushed back.

“You made a mess,” Charles pointed out, brushing his knuckles over the wet spot on Erik's pants, legs still wrapped around Erik's waist. Erik slumped against him, pressing that same wet spot against Charles's bare skin, making him shiver even with all of Erik's warmth on top of him. “That's going to be even more unpleasant if you let it dry, you know.”

“Know. Don't care.” Erik mouthed the fabric of Charles's cardigan, blue like his eyes, his tongue darting out when he hit bare collarbone, licking off some of the light sweat. “Can I tell you something?” he asked in between pressing kisses to Charles's neck. Charles nodded, drawing slow circles onto Erik's back with two fingers. “I've never—I mean, I've had sex, but it was never—like that. Is it always like that for you? Is that why you wanted...?”

“No,” Charles said honestly, feeling suddenly dead tired. He yawned against Erik's hair, craning up to crack his back. “It's never been like that. But I always wanted it to be.”

“I never thought it could be,” Erik admitted, pressing his face into Charles's chest.

“It'll be even better tomorrow.” Charles firmly believed that. He could tell by the way Erik laughed that he didn't need convincing.  
–

Charles knew how to drive. He had simply never deemed it necessary to get his driver's license as his mother had five personal drivers who barely left the mansion in her employ. Of course, he didn't tell Erik that. He had stolen a brand new Honda with an automatic gear shift and a rear camera embedded in the dashboard. “You can keep it, if you'd like.” There was a new tension in Erik's shoulders as he took the passenger seat, a tick under his skin as if it was a hardship to keep his hands off of Charles. His eyes were brighter, catching the light and almost emerald green. “You don't have to. I can get you a better car, any car—”

“It's perfect, Erik, it's fine.” Charles shifted into drive, his foot firmly on the brake. He checked his mirrors, dramatizing every motion under Erik's scrutiny. “So I can go now?”

“Yes, just don't—” Charles slammed on the gas, the engine roaring and then slammed on the brakes, laughing as Erik belatedly strapped the seatbelt across his chest. “Do that.” There were deep furrows in Erik's forehead and Charles barely resisted the temptation to reach up and smooth them out with a single touch. “Ease into it. Press lightly.”

Charles drove perfectly after that, all the way to the service station, but the lines in Erik's forehead were still there. When Charles parked next to one of the rusted gas pumps, Erik's fingers ghosted along his jawline. Charles turned into his fingers, pressing a kiss to the tips. “Did I drive well then?”

“Mmhm,” Erik murmured indistinctly. Charles wrapped his lips around Erik's middle finger, smiling around him when Erik's eyes widened. Charles sucked all the way down to Erik's third knuckle, his stomach sinking like a stone when Erik gasped, a wounded, rasping sound unlike anything Charles had ever heard. “I didn't take you driving because I expected anything from you, Charles.”

“I know that. I'm doing this because I want to. I want to do quite a bit more, in fact.”

Erik pulled his hand back and Charles released him with a small pop of air, smiling roguishly when Erik's cheeks colored slightly. Erik reached down between his legs and pulled the fasten on the glove compartment, removing two silver flasks. Charles laughed, but plucked the flask from Erik's fingers, taking a long swig before settling himself comfortably in the back seat. Erik followed after him, but instead of slotting himself around Charles as he had in all their previous backseat drinking forays, he pressed himself against Charles legs, an almost needy lust in his eyes as Charles wrapped his legs around Erik's waist and pressed their chests flush. “Can I—I want to...” Erik palmed at Charles's hair before tightening his fingers in it and Charles felt a hard lump grow in his throat, his entire esophagus constricting at the way the bottom dropped out of Erik's eyes, a ship without an anchor. “You can say no, but I can s—suck your...?”

Charles merely nodded, feeling as though he'd never breathe unobstructed again. Erik kissed him, tongue whiskey sharp, and then slid down his body, pulling his cardigan up to unbuckle his belt. His hands were shaking, metal clinking against metal, but then there was a puff of hot air at the base of Charles's stomach, a warm lap of tongue, and a healthy dash of teeth, and Charles's whole body was shaking. “You're a quick study,” Charles groaned as Erik shoved Charles's jeans all the way down, tugging them off when they caught on his feet.

“I've had an excellent teacher.” Erik grinned with too much teeth, his lip curling up _obscenely_ , given the context. Charles squeezed the bridge of his nose and then that mouth was on him before he could get a handle on what was about to happen, warm and wet and _oh god_. Erik's tongue was _long_ , lapping up and down his entire length experimentally, Erik's eyes locked on his his, ice water blue under his light eyelashes. Charles took a long swig from his flask before screwing the cap back on and dropping it into the cup holder behind his head, lifting his hips up and pressing himself up against Erik's closed mouth. Erik rubbed his lips around Charles before properly taking him into his mouth.

“Just a—ahh, God, you're good—but just a tip before you start getting really into it, a hand is good, too. Just, hit your index finger with your lips and then take that finger off and then the next finger and then you can take the hand—” Any further instruction dissolved into incoherency as Erik followed directions, hallowing out his cheeks and _rolling_ his tongue around Charles, fist tight at the base of Charles's cock.

Charles didn't last that long, especially when Erik starting moaning, his entire throat constantly tensing around Charles, and the man appeared to have no gag reflex, taking all of Charles _over-and-over-and-over_. After all was said and done and Erik was sitting against the door with his legs tucked underneath him, wiping at the corners of his mouth, Charles felt more like it had been some kind of entirely pleasant assault than a blow job, breathing as though he had to accommodate a cannonball in his lungs.

“That was, em, definitely in the top ten fellatio performances of the quarter century, I'd say, if not the top five. I'm sure you've got me bested.” Charles pulled his pants back up and groped blindly for the flask, taking another generous swig, his head starting to fog at the corners.

“I'd like to test that theory, Xavier.”

“Oh, would you? How much?”

Erik popped the fasten of his pants, quirking an eyebrow. “Very much.”

Charles kept the Honda.

–

Erik seemed a perfect part of the furniture in his father's study, all sleek lines and smooth planes and alluring mystery, an oddment from another world, one Charles could taste in his dreams but never quite reach. Charles hadn't meant for it to happen. He'd brought people back to the mansion before, of course—more often than not, his conquests made it a non-negotiable—but no one had ever set foot in his father's study. His sister Raven even came in sparingly, usually only to get Charles to come out. It was a relic, unchanged except for the few possessions of Charles's that had migrated in (a pen set his mother had given him for his sixteenth birthday, a blanket for naps on the couch, a picture of himself and Raven in front of the mansion when they'd both been much younger and much unhappier) and it was the closest thing to Charles heart, his deepest kept secret, everything he never said woven into the fabric of the tapestries on the wall, in the pages of the shelves and shelves of books, in the drawers of the big mahogany desk. And Erik fit in seamlessly, as though he'd always been there, disturbing the place less than Charles did, curled around himself in an arm chair.

They played chess and drank an entire bottle of whiskey between them, a bottle that had been sitting in Charles's father's liquor cabinet since before either of them were born. Erik won twice, once while they were achingly sober, and once while Charles was sinking further and further into his own arm chair, feeling as though the weight of the last two weeks of Erik's constant presence were pressing against his chest, an orbiting satellite of days and nights that made all of his life before that day in the parking lot a distant memory, and Charles won three times in between. Erik was good with rooks and Charles with knights. Erik barely touched his queen, drawing her out only as a last resort, and Charles often lost her in his recklessness, smashing into pawns at the slightest provocation. They learned the subtleties of each other's game too fast, having to adapt to even make a showing, but as the night progressed, Charles just knocked over his king, laughing lightly against his tumbler when Erik drew in a sharp breath. “This has been quite enough foreplay, don't you think?”

“I was under the impression you were a fan of the game, Charles. I didn't know this was leading up to something.” Erik uncoiled himself from the arm chair like a cat and reached across the chess board, fingers crawling inch by inch, to take Charles's glass away from him, reaching into it to suck the whiskey out of the ice cubes.

“Everything with you is foreplay, my friend. Always has been.” Erik stood, the glasses clinking together as he brushed against the table, and straddled the arm of Charles's chair, running his fingers soothingly through Charles's hair, though Charles was sure Erik had to be just as drunk as he was.

“Charles—I think maybe I should just go back to my hotel room. You're adorably drunk and all, but I don't want you to think that I'm taking advantage.”

Charles turned into his touch, letting his eyes slip shut, sinking even further into the chair, feeling as though he were melting straight through the floor. “That sounds like a terrible idea. I can't let you drive, you're drunk, too. Erik, it's fine. Stay the night. I have an awfully big bed and it gets awfully lonely without another body to fill it. We don't even have to sex, though...” Charles opened his eyes for a moment, cupping himself through his pants, tilting his head up to smile as Erik grunted a little. “Though I'd very much like to.”

“What will your mother think?”

Charles laughed, letting his eyes slip shut again as Erik's fingers hooked behind his ears, tracing along the line of his jaw as gently as he would if Charles were sleeping. “My mother is in another wing and will not venture out of it until after noon tomorrow. And even if she did, I highly doubt she would think much. I doubt she'd even think you were...” Charles paused. “She would think we were just friends.”

Erik's hand stalled underneath Charles's lips, thumb caught in the cleft of Charles's chin. “We aren't just friends?”

Charles nudged Erik's hand away, his eyes snapping open. He sat up properly, thigh knocking against Erik's. “Do you routinely do things like this with your friends, then?”

Erik paused, mouth slightly agape before he averted his eyes, tick jumping in his jaw again. “I—well, no, but. I haven't got many friends, I thought maybe you—you did this—with other friends.”

Charles reached up, an attempt at Erik's face, but he ended up clinging to Erik's shirt. His face was hot and he felt a blinding pressure behind his eyes, an acidy, bile taste rising in the back of his mouth. “We're not friends, Erik. We've never been friends. We'll never be friends.” Erik wasn't looking at him, so Charles tugged on the collar of his shirt, nearly ripping it. Erik wrapped a hand around his wrist and twisted, but Charles didn't let go, growling low in his throat. “Erik. You told me—you told me that you didn't think it could be like this, that this was easy. Did you forget that?”

“No.” Barely more than a whisper, practically dissolving into the air as soon as he said it.

“Then you know what this is. Don't you?”

“Yes.” Erik pulled more forcefully at Charles's wrist and detached one of his hands, playing lightly with Charles's fingers before finally meeting his eyes. “I don't want this, Charles. For you, I mean. I—I tried to warn you, I tried to stop you, tried to stop _myself_ , but you're—it feels like you're in my head, all of the time. Looking at things you shouldn't see, rearranging things up there. You're everywhere I turn and you're faster than me, anticipating me every time I try to find a—a polite way out of this. I know we aren't friends, but I—I wish we were because friendships have a better chance of ending well. Better than this, in any case, and—God, Charles, don't look at me like that.”

“No one has ever been in here before,” Charles whispered, smoothing out the creases he'd left in Erik's shirt.

“What do you mean?”

“This is my father's study. I've never taken anyone in here. Not a friend, not a lover, not anyone. Only you.” He pulled their joined hands up to his mouth and pressed a light kiss to the backs of Erik's fingers, breathing hard. “Only you.”

They ended up tangled around each other in Charles's sheets, having kicked off his comforter, the canopy drawn closed around them. Charles saw stars, constellations really, when Erik first undulated into him, fists tight in the sheets, but he kept his eyes open, absorbing the line of Erik's jaw, the way his hair hung around his temples, the way the sweat beaded on his upper lip as he whispered against Charles skin. _Liebling liebling liebling_. He snapped his hips, the entire frame of Charles's bed colliding with the wall, his knees pressing into the mattress, but he clung to Charles as though he were drowning, scraping teeth and tongue over every inch of skin, lifting Charles's hips off of the mattress to get a better angle. He never wasted any motion, molding his body around Charles's responses, their skin sticking together and sliding, a wet heat building like an inferno at the base of Charles's stomach. Erik came first, shuddering hard and whispering Charles name as though it were his dying breath, but he kept moving inside Charles until Charles came, too, hands fisted up in Erik's damp hair.

Charles was drifting off to sleep, freshly showered, smelling the soap on Erik's skin, when Erik cleared his throat, turning to press his forehead against Charles's. “Charles, I have to tell you something. Wake up.”

“Not asleep,” Charles murmured, opening his lips against Erik's without pressing, but Erik pulled back, his breath still hot against the hallow of Charles's cheek.

“I have to go away. For a little while. I don't know when I'll be back.”

Charles didn't open his eyes, but pressed himself closer, forehead colliding with Erik's nose. “But you're coming back. You're coming back for me.”

“I—yes. I'll come back.”

“When are you leaving?” Charles mouthed absently at Erik's jaw and then his cheek and then his earlobe, nipping lightly until Erik turned his head away, pressing a hand to Charles chest. Charles finally cracked his eyes open and nearly choked. Erik's eyes were _stormy_ , angry and distant, gone. Charles turned away from him, lying flat on his back as he swallowed back a bitter laugh. “You had no intention of coming back. That's why you didn't want to fall into bed with me. That's where the concern about taking advantage came from. The friends bit. You weren't coming back.” Erik made a strangled sound and his hand was feather light on Charles's shoulder, but Charles shrugged him off, rolling over on his side. “You could have not told me, if you were trying to consider my feelings. It would have been better if you'd just left.”

“Charles—I—it's not about you. I _have_ to go, I don't want to. I wasn't ever supposed to be here, I was passing through and you...” Erik pressed himself tightly against Charles back and made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a sob, but Charles stayed rigid and immobile, chin tucked to his chest. “I didn't want it to be like this. You made it like this, Charles. You made me like this.”

“I didn't. You don't _tell_ me anything. Fuck, Erik.” Erik pressed a featherlight kiss between his shoulder blades and Charles shivered, suddenly more tired than he'd ever been in his entire life. “I knew you would blow out of town eventually, but not like this. Never like this. You did this, too. You knew what you were doing.”

“I know, I'm sorry, Charles, I'm sorry. I tried, but I—I couldn't. I couldn't stop myself. I—I love you, I think.”

Charles laughed, pressing his face into his pillow, his whole body shaking against Erik. “I love you, too, I think, you bastard,” he groaned when he had to come up for air. Erik draped an arm over him, lips blazing warm in the bend of his neck. “Where are you going? Why can't you come back?”

“It's not—It's not safe. It's... There are things I haven't told you, things that I've done, things that I will do. Things you wouldn't like very much. Things that would make you sick to your stomach. And even if I don't—if I was able to come back, I don't think you'd want to take me.”

Charles turned around and grabbed both sides of Erik's face, pressing a kiss to the bridge of his nose and then his lips, both without any weight, a token. “I will _always_ take you. Erik, I told you the first night I met you that I don't care. And I don't. I don't care what you've done, I don't care what you're planning to do or even if you do it, I care about you and all of that is baggage. You're not defined by the things you were, Erik, and you're not defined by the things you will be. You're defined by the things you _are_.”

“I've killed people, Charles.”

“I'd guessed as much.”

“I burnt down that gas station.”

“I'm sure you had a good reason.”

“I'm leaving town to kill someone, Charles. To tear him limb from limb and throw him in a lake and hope that something comes along and shits him out. And I'll meet him in hell and do it all again.”

“Can I come with you?”

That seemed to take Erik aback. He breathed in sharply. “No. Charles, are you listening to a word I'm saying?”

“Yes. I want to come with you. Erik. I'm not afraid of you and I'm not afraid of what you're capable of and I'm not—I'd rather be with you than without you. I can drive some for you. Keep you warm at night. Make sure you're eating. So that when you find the man you're after, you're at full strength and you can, well. Do what you're planning.”

“No.”

“Erik.”

“Charles, I said no.”

“Erik.”

“You're just repeating my name.”

“ _Erik_.” Charles kissed him properly, deeply, pushing his hair off of his forehead, tasting himself in every corner of Erik's mouth. “I'm coming with you.”

They left in the morning.

–

“Tell me about this man, then. This man you're after.” Charles was folded around himself in the booth at the diner, eating french fries off of Erik's plate, wearing Erik's leather jacket and his aviator sunglasses, hair mussed up from having spent most of the day sleeping off his hangover in the backseat of the Honda. Erik was drinking a milk shake, ignorant of the attention of the girl behind the counter. She was wearing a dragonfly necklace, the green and purple wings catching the sunlight every time she passed their table.

“I'd rather not, Charles.” Erik stretched, his booted feet propped up on Charles's bench. There were deep purple bags under his eyes and though he seemed appreciative of Charles's company, smiling fondly at him in the rear view mirror all afternoon, he seemed put out, as if he'd been carrying Charles the three hundred and seventy-five miles he'd driven outside of Albany. South. They were going south. “It's better for you not to know.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I think you underestimate how invested I am in—this.” He'd almost said _you_ , but decided against it, licking the salt off of his fingers before spooning off a bite of Erik's milk shake.

“I could have bought you food, you know,” Erik reprimanded, but there was little intent behind his voice, not even enough weight to be teasing. “I understand I've put you in a position where you deserve some answers, but this. This isn't easy for me and I'd like—your patience.”

“I've been patient, Erik. Tell me his name, at least.” Erik shook his head, mouth a thin line. He pushed the rest of his shake at Charles. Charles fished the cherry out of the bottom and swallowed it whole, tears burning in his eyes. “I don't even have to know why you're killing him. Not yet, at least. But please, Erik. Tell me his name.”

“Can't you ever let something _be_ , Charles? Do you always have to _prod_ and _poke_ and _pester_ when things don't go your way?” Erik was leaning forward, his fingers steepled together in front of him, his words a low hiss of air through his teeth. “You shouldn't be here. You should be back at school or sitting up in your father's precious study, playing chess with ghosts and drinking liquor that costs more than my parents made in a year, jacking off in your ludicrous bed, thinking of all the things I haven't done to you—”

“That's enough.”

“You should be studying for exams and making friends with people your own age, fucking boys with pretty mouths and big eyes and—”

“Erik, _enough_. I'm sorry. I understand how important this is to you and I thought—I'm trying to be helpful, but I can see you'd rather I keep my mouth shut. I won't say another word about it if you listen to me.” Erik didn't move, watching the girl with the dragonfly necklace bend over another table, glancing over her shoulder at Erik with dark eyes and a playful, off center smile. “Are you listening to me?” Erik jerked his head towards Charles, the fury in his eyes a swift kick to the gut. “Killing this man will not bring you peace. You'll kill yourself, too.”

“I know that, Charles.”

“He's worth it?”

“Yes.”

Charles swallowed, coughing around the cherry, which hadn't gone down very well. He wished he'd asked that question before he'd skipped town.

–

It was like watching a man drown from shore. Charles touched him—the only tried and true method he'd ever encountered for calming the waves—but Erik was a live wire, sparking under his fingers. It was at Charles's insistence that they finally got a hotel room near the Pennsylvania and West Virginia border and at Charles's insistence that they pushed the two full size beds together, but it was Erik's incomprehensible distance that made it hard for Charles to move passed the afternoon in the diner.

It hadn't hurt, not exactly. Stung, perhaps, but Charles was too well-versed in Erik's verbal assaults as a ploy to push him away to see it as anything other than a last valiant attempt. He was more concerned about what Erik was protecting. Certainly part of it was an intellectual curiosity—Charles had prodded and pulled all sides out of Erik. There was the Erik that kissed the bridge of his nose in the morning, the Erik that fucked him like he was dying and called him German obscenities, the Erik that barely spoke to him, the Erik that wouldn't stop talking to him, and then there was the Erik that shot and killed people in cold blood. Charles refused to believe there wasn't a reason that all of things seemed to exist at once and he had deduced that this man—the man Erik had confessed to pursuing for half of his lifetime—was a catalyst.

Charles pressed himself close to Erik, palms flat on his chest, feeling his chest rise and his heart beat, but none of the vital life his touch usually ignited. “Where will be tomorrow?” He wrapped his lips around the shell of Erik's ear, but Erik turned his head away, brushing his knuckles against the top of Charles's head dismissively. He didn't roll away from Charles, though. A good sign.

“I'd like to make it as far as Georgia. You can drive some, if you'd like. Maybe across Virginia or something.”

“And then the next day?” Charles hand crawled up under Erik's turtleneck, fingernails scraping at the flat plane of his stomach, but Erik didn't even respond subconsciously. He didn't even feel it. Charles huffed against his neck.

“Florida. He's in Florida.”

“And what happens in Florida?”

Erik shoved him hard in the chest, rolling on top of him, pinning Charles's shoulders with an arm and his legs with his own, even as Charles lashed out. He stopped struggling, the elbow on his chest crushing the air out of him, and Erik eventually relaxed, pressing his face into the side of Charles's neck, his breathing even. “We shouldn't talk about things like that, Charles.”

“Why am I here, Erik?” He turned, whispering it against Erik's cheek. Erik's fingers tightened on Charles's waist, all of his muscles tensed, spurred.

“Because you're annoying and insistent and you said—you said you wanted to be.”

He seemed to think that was a sufficient answer, turning to catch Charles's lips, but Charles broke off the kiss hastily, smoothing his hands over Erik's hair as he laughed. “That's not what I'm asking and you know it, my friend. You wanted me to be as well. Why am I here? I know you're not a man easily persuaded. Everything I've wanted from you, I've gotten, that's true, but I know I'm an exception and I know that it's only because you wanted it, too. So why am I here?” Erik didn't answer. He shifted subtly, pressing his waist flush against Charles's without any insistence, resting there as if caught between wanting to distract Charles and wanting the conversation to continue. “I know why I'm here. I'm here so you don't drown.”

“I don't follow.” Erik spread Charles's legs out wider with a knee before fitting them around himself as he grinded down, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth.

“You don't want to die with his man. Well, not anymore. Because of me.” Erik was undoing the buckle of Charles's belt, his other hand already kneading Charles through his jeans. “You didn't use to think about what would happen after you killed him—you didn't care, it didn't matter, his death was the only thing that mattered—but then there was me. And now something else matters. You imagined what your life would be like without this hanging over your head for the first time and that's—”

Erik crushed his mouth over Charles's, shoving Charles's pants down so roughly, his fingernails left scrapes down Charles's thighs. Charles shoved at Erik's forehead, at his cheeks, but Erik kept kissing him, sucking in and swallowing all of his protests, biting down on Charles's tongue to keep him still. Charles bucked up against him, shoving a knee up, but Erik caught it and forced him down, arching his back like a cat, his whole weight pinning Charles. Charles punched weakly at his chest, tasting blood like copper and Erik like sand, breathing as though his lungs were filling up with water.

“You shouldn't say things like that,” Erik said when he finally gave up, his lips shining red. Charles wiped angrily at his own lips and ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth, inspecting the damage. Erik had a nasty pair of incisors and rather too many teeth, but it had just been enough to draw blood. “You shouldn't say things that are so close to my head.” Erik pressed his face against the fabric of Charles's sweater, breathing in deeply. “You shouldn't be here. It isn't supposed to happen like this.”

“It's supposed to happen how it happens.” Charles ran his fingers through Erik's pushed back hair. “But tell me, Erik. Tell me what happens in Florida.”

He did. His plan, though workable, wasn't throughly detailed. The man was a prominent Miami socialite, his hand in the pockets of both the well-to-do in Miami and the myriad of drug trades, most notably those run out of Russia. He was opening a club on Friday, hence the breakneck pace of the road trip, but Erik would be waiting for the after party on the yacht he left docked in the marina. Charles felt like pointing out all of the flaws in Erik's plan, but he could sense how well it would go over. There was a gleam in Erik's eyes, a twisting, sadistic pleasure he took from whatever he pictured happening in the deck's cabin that Charles couldn't make himself press on.

“What happens after Florida, Charles?” Erik had slid down Charles's body, delicately tonguing the marks he'd left on Charles's thighs. Charles squirmed, heat pooling at the base of his stomach. He felt like their was something he was missing, some subtlety of the conversation about to be lost by Erik's insistence that all of their serious talks involve non-verbal uses of his tongue, so he lifted his knee, dislodging Erik's mouth. Which only made him hover over Charles's cock, breathing deliberately heavy with a wide, open mouth.

“What do you mean?”

“You're right, you know.” He licked the juncture of Charles's hipbone, both sides, his eyes forest green under long eyelashes. “About you—changing things. I never really thought about what happens after I kill him. I always imagined I'd—end. With him. Somehow.” There are deep lines in his forehead, but he shook his head and swirled his tongue around Charles's navel, smiling against his skin when Charles's breath hitched. “So, you decide. What do we do after I kill Sebastian Shaw?”

 _Sebastian Shaw_. A name. Charles hooked his fingers under Erik's jaw and lifted his head up, forcing himself to focus. “I hadn't thought much about it myself, to be entirely honest. I've been sort of existing solely in the present because I was afraid—” Charles swallowed around a lump in his throat. For all his ability to pull forth and empathize with the whole spectrum of human emotion, he had never been very good at expressing any of his own. He spent so much time trying to live inside other people's heads, he was never sure where they ended and he began, so he allowed himself to grow stunted, to contain it all and focus his efforts more on vicarious emotion. “I was afraid what would happen to me when you left.”

“So think about it now.” Erik propped himself up on his elbows, his breath warm on Charles's stomach.

“You aren't going to help me?”

“I don't think the ideas I have would be very, em, helpful. I seem to have a one track mind.” He smiled with too many teeth, pushing Charles sweater and undershirt up even higher, letting it catch under his armpits.

Charles groaned, rubbing his eyes. “Well, I've always wanted to go back to England. Permanently. I got into Oxford.”

“And what would I do while you were being a rigorous academic?” Erik licked a line from Charles's sternum to the indentations left from the elastic waistband of his boxer shorts.

“Steal cars, presumably. I'm sure there's a market for it. And fuck me senseless everyday, of course. But whatever you like. You'll be with me, so you can do whatever you like.”

Erik crawled up his body and kissed him almost absently. Charles wasn't naïve enough to believe that he could stop Erik from doing what he intended when they got to Miami, though he could try, but he firmly believed that he could stop Erik from going under with Shaw, whatever the cost.

It cost everything. It cost Erik.

–


	2. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There a mentions of past sexual abuse and drug use (really, just mentions), but I figured I'd give you forewarning! Also, this is much, much shorter than the first chapter, so I'm just going to call it an "epilogue" even though it's not really.

“I imagine there are things you'd like to know about me.” Erik was playing clock solitaire on the dashboard, grumbling every time Charles needlessly changed lanes as it knocked some of his cards askew, his long legs tucked neatly underneath him, no seatbelt. Sweat was making Charles shirt stick to his back, but Erik looked stunning, the sunlight catching the moisture on his skin and making him gleam gold.

“I've told you before, I don't care about the past.” And it was true. Charles didn't. Erik defined himself by the past, trapped himself so that the past was always on his tongue, its fingerprints everywhere Charles touched. Charles didn't have to ask about anything, it was all there if he wanted to know, a gentle push of his fingers away. “If there are things you would like to tell me, I am always more than willing to listen, but as far as I'm concerned, I know enough about you to continue to be pleasantly surprised.”

“What if we play a game? You ask me a question and I ask you a question and then we put the past behind us.” Charles switched lanes needlessly, but Erik swiped the cards off of the dashboard, shuffling absently. “I feel like, in order to do this properly, you should know. The things I haven't told you. And I should know the things you haven't told me. Or anyone.”

“I thought we were doing this properly.”

“We're not. Charles, there's this whole part of me that you refuse to acknowledge exists. And I don't want to throw in your face, but if—if you accept me the way you say you do, without any conditions or ulterior motives, then there are things you should know. There are things I should tell you. And there are things I want to know about you in return. Like how you get those bruises and why—why you're so unhappy that you'd want to get fucked by a stranger simply because he had an expensive car that you could have very easily bought for yourself.”

Charles pulled over. “Do you think I'm in _denial_ about you? That I'm on this road trip because I think it's a romantic getaway? I know who you are, Erik, and I know what you've done. Throwing it in my face is exactly what you're doing. I may seem like I'm—brushing things under the table or gallivanting around blissfully pretending that the world can't touch me or hasn't touched you, but I'm not. I'm doing the best I can with the given circumstances, the same as you, and you have no right to judge me for it.”

Erik looked taken aback, a splinter between his irises and his pupils, and he leaned back against the car door as if Charles had dealt him a blow, that tick in his jaw jumping again. “I'm not judging you, Charles, I'm telling you—I'm trying to save you from more—pain, anger, guilt, things that are inevitably going to happen to you if this—ends badly.”

“I don't need your protection.”

“Well, good, as that's not what I'm offering you. I'm, in fact, offering you more danger. You think you're in deep now, but you're just treading fucking water. I want to drag you to the bottom and hold you there.”

Charles swallowed and got back on the two-lane highway, his eyes stinging and his throat bone dry, his teeth glued together where they overlapped. “Fine. We'll ask each other questions,” he growled, feeling as though he were speaking through cement. “You have to answer every single one truthfully and then if we don't ever want to talk about that particular question again, we don't. Do you understand?” Erik nodded and then crossed his arms over his chest, waiting patiently for Charles. “Did Sebastian Shaw sexually abuse you?”

“Yes. Does your step-father sexually abuse you?”

“No. Were you a drug addict?”

“Mostly recovered. Is he how you got those bruises, though?”

“Mostly. My step-brother sometimes likes to rough me up a little, too. I seem to have that affect on people. Do you have a criminal record?”

“A vast one. So vast, there are probably FBI agents waiting for me to show up in Miami. They've been tracking Shaw through me for years. Other people have beat you up?”

“My charming wit and inability to hide my sexuality inspire a wide array of spirited responses from my peers. It's nothing important and nothing lethal. They mostly recovered by the time I was around sixteen and filled out, em, a little bit more. How'd you come by that scar near your kidney?”

“I sold my kidney to pay a debt. How many people have you fucked?”

“Less than thirty, more than ten, but I'm ashamed to say I don't have an exact figure. Did Sebastian Shaw have anything to do with your parents's deaths?”

“Yes. He had my father killed to pay a debt and he killed my mother with his own trigger finger when I initially refused to pay my father's debt. It was paid in blood. You have a step-sister?”

“Ah, not exactly. I have an adopted sister. She's not Kurt's. She broke into the mansion, her own parents dead, and she wanted food. This was before my mother remarried. So I hid her for awhile and when my mother finally noticed, it was beyond too late and Raven had simply become a permanent fixture in my life, a sort of pet. She's the only thing that kept me sane when my stepfather and step-brother moved in. Did other people sexually abuse you, too?”

“Yes. I was Shaw's boy, his sampler platter. If you wanted a taste of what Shaw had to offer, I gave it to you. Whatever you wanted to taste. How old were you when you lost your virginity?”

“Twelve, by standard definition. I had fooled around some before then, but not much. I was a quick study. How did you get into stealing cars?”

“Initially, it was part of what I did for Shaw, to run drugs across the Canadian border. By the time I got away from Shaw, I had already perfected it into a science and I was trying to stay out of the game as there was no way Shaw wouldn't find me and there was too much temptation to fall back into that life style, so I kept it up, made a life out of it, as it was about the only thing I was good at, at that point. What was it like when your father died?”

“I barely remember it. People were sadder for me than I was for myself. I didn't understand what it meant, still don't. I don't feel like it left a gap in my life, only a vacancy I wish hadn't had to be filled by someone like Kurt Marko. All in all, I suppose I felt nothing but this sort of dull ache and guilt that I didn't feel more, but it's not as if we ever had the opportunity to know each other. I'd like to think he'd enjoy the person I am and I'd be quite proud to have him as my father, but that's not how it worked out. I suppose the only really devastating effect of my father's death was my mother's alcoholism, but that may have come anyway. The signs were all there. What drug?”

“Heroin. Is there anything else?” Erik shifted in his seat, stretching out his legs as much as the car allowed, something dark in his eyes.

“I guess not.”

They drove in silence for awhile and Charles felt like screaming. He had known before he opened his mouth that Erik would misinterpret his answers as the man only knew the past as an ever present, forever seared into his skin and coloring his world view, determining his actions, and Charles knew that wasn't the case, the past as malleable in the human mind as anything else, colored more by the present than the present ever was by the past. Charles was tired of the push and pull—Erik had _asked_ for this, had all but demanded it of Charles, but Charles felt like any time they found themselves on solid ground, Erik's more mercurial nature reared its head, tipping them both off balance. He knew Erik didn't do it maliciously, or even consciously, but it felt like he was dragging Charles along by his iron heart.

“You're being really unreasonable, you know.”

Erik grunted, shaking off his lull, tucking his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on his knee. “I'm not, I'm sorry. I'm thinking.”

“About?”

“Nothing that would much interest you.”

Charles forced himself to breathe in deeply, knowing his anger was useless. Erik was even more emotionally stunted than Charles himself, almost unreachable, and getting to him was almost like translating with only a dictionary. Charles wished he had two more weeks before Shaw, but he had around forty eight hours, Florida looming on the map like an enemy warship. “You asked me to answer those questions. And hear those answers. And then you don't talk to me. If I've upset you—”

“I'm not upset.” He reached out and grabbed at Charles's thigh, his grip tight, clinging more than touching, the beds of his fingernails white against the black of Charles's slacks.

“Then tell me what you're thinking.” Charles clapped his hand over Erik's and squeezed before returning it to the steering wheel. Erik didn't move his hand or loosen his grip, instead kneading Charles's thigh almost painfully, digging his fingers in and rubbing.

“You should know what I'm thinking.”

“I'm afraid I can't read your mind, my friend.”

“Sometimes you give me that impression.”

He shifted as Erik started scraping his nails along his thigh, inching closer to his crotch every time he scratched upwards. “You're going to kill us both if you keep this up. And I'm well familiar with your diversionary tactics and they will not work on me. So, tell me what's on your mind, then.”

Erik withdrew his hand and Charles let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. “You were—right, in some respects. Knowing your past doesn't—doesn't change how I feel about you or how I see you. But I can't shake the feeling that mine _should_. That you're missing something important.”

“To be entirely honest, nothing you told me is something I hadn't mostly pieced together for myself.” Erik's jaw tensed and his hands turned to fists in his lap. “Not that you're transparent, or anything, it's simply that I'm good at—reading people. Well, no. I'm good at solving puzzles. And people's pasts are puzzles. There's a method. If you find the edges, fit them together, you get the whole picture eventually. I'd found most of those edges. Not to say that I have the whole picture, or ever will, but.” Charles reached for one of Erik's hands, squeezing his fingers before returning it to the steering wheel. “I'm sorry that all of that happened to you.”

“I'm sorry that all of that happened to you, too.”

–

Erik was a man of action in a way that Charles never could be, communicating more without words letting them speak for him with a permanence that Charles envied. Charles made choices, but tried, in general, to keep them from being irrevocable—though words were permanent too, they had a fluidity, the meaning changing with context and form, a subtlety that doesn't exist in action. It was why that night in Georgia was so hard. He knew what choice Erik had made, what action he had taken, what he was saying without words, what Charles himself was afraid would become permanent in a way their words would not.

He kissed with all tongue and pulled Charles's boxers off with his teeth, nipping at the insides of his thighs. His hands covered every inch of Charles as if he was searching for a mark, something he had left there, where he had mapped himself out on Charles. _Everywhere_ , Charles thought, loudly, squeezing his eyes shut and snapping his head back.

It was always a fight with Erik in the bedroom, a chess match. It didn't come easy, even though they were like gasoline and an open flame around each other. It wasn't a lack of chemistry—Charles felt that everything was in perfect working order in that department—but a sort of power struggle, a constantly ebbing reconciliation of their warring natures. Charles was saying one thing with his body and Erik another. Charles had always seen sex as another disposable human interaction, as harmless, repetitive and inescapable as making small talk, a means to a sexually gratifying end. Erik had always seen it as something held against him, taken from him, used against his will, another weapon to destroy a person from the inside out, as he had been destroyed. Charles didn't—couldn't—take for granted what it meant that Erik had spent a significant portion of the last week and half touching and being touched. It was a sort of willful piecing together of the best both of them had to offer to make a whole.

Erik wouldn't let him come. He brought Charles right up to the brink, every single sensation caught in his chest and climbing up his throat, his eyes stinging and watering, but then Erik would stop, bending Charles in half to press kisses into the side of his neck, his sweat soaked hair cool against Charles's skin. Charles begged for it, pleaded and whined until his voice cracked and stayed that way, but Erik wouldn't let him. And wouldn't let himself. “Please, God, Erik. It _hurts_. I need to come so badly, it hurts. Please. Touch me once and I'll come, I'm so, so fucking close.” Erik's entire body weight pressed against his chest, his cock trapped between them, but Erik kept him from shifting his hips against Erik's stomach. “Want to come for you. Want to make you come. Please. Erik, please.”

Erik growled against his neck and then thrust his fingers in Charles's mouth. Charles's bit down, but Erik didn't take them out, even when Charles tasted blood. Eventually he gave up, making a high, obnoxious whining sound around them, trying to shift his weight against Erik even a little bit, hoping the friction from the press of their bodies or the fact that Erik was still inside him, though not moving, would be enough to get him off, but it was like trying to move a mountain. “Erik. _Mein Gott_ , fucking _move_.”

“Don't want it to be over,” Erik mouthed against his neck, his entire body rigid, tense, and heavy on top of Charles. Charles blinked before turning his head to catch Erik's lips, Erik's voice echoing in his head like rolling thunder. Charles knew he wasn't talking about the sex or even the road trip. Erik was still willing to trade his life for Shaw's. After all and everything, he was going to do his best to make that bargain.

“It doesn't have to be like this, Erik.”

Charles dug his heels into Erik's back, a bright spot behind his eyes as he pulled Erik deeper inside himself. He nearly sobbed when Erik rolled his hips, breathing shallowly into the crook of Charles's neck. “Oh God, Erik.” Charles knew it was classic Erik—distracting him with sex—but he practically _wrung_ the orgasm out of Charles. Charles felt like the pleasure was absolute at even a cellular level, wracking through his body, leaving nothing behind. He clung to Erik like a life raft, practically screaming, his voice ragged to his own ears. Erik followed shortly after, biting into Charles's shoulder to keep himself quiet, hard enough to draw blood, his entire body spasming hard against Charles's. Charles smoothed hands down his spine and kissed down the side of his face, feeling as though everything vital had been drained from him.

“Erik, why don't you believe me? I refuse—I won't let anything happen to you. If everything goes according to plan, you'll be fine. You'll come back to New York with me. Wait out the summer in the mansion. Then come to England with me, start over. No drugs, no cars, no Shaw. Just me and you.”

Erik rolled off him, laughing bitterly. Charles stomach roiled, his gut protesting the sound. “Things don't really work like that, Charles. You must know that.”

“This isn't— _things_. This is me and you. It works how we make it work and I'm saying we're going to make this work.” Charles pressed himself against Erik's side, his skin sticky and clammy. “Why don't you _believe_ me?” he whispered against Erik's shoulder, tasting salt and copper on his skin.

“Realistically, Charles, what do you think will happen after I kill Shaw? You think that he'll be alone on that boat? That there won't be witnesses?” His voice was like diving headfirst into a hole in a polar icecap, a knife to Charles's lungs, distant and unrecognizable.

“I—well, no, but I'd rather hoped—”

“I know what you _rather hoped_ , Charles. You _rather hoped_ I wouldn't have the heart to do it. You _rather hoped_ that all of your appeals to my non-existent better nature would finally take effect. That I would love you enough to let it go, let _everything_ go. Let who I am go. Charles, wake up. I'm killing Shaw. We drove down to Florida so I could kill the man that made me what I am. Nothing you can say or do will change that. Tomorrow night, I'm killing Shaw and I'm running and either you're coming with me or you're turning tail and running back to New York. Without me.”

Charles couldn't make a sound. He couldn't move. He couldn't think, feeling as though he were caught in time, everything moving around him while he stayed still, held there by a force stronger than himself. “I'm not leaving you.”

Charles reached over Erik's body and turned off the lamp on the nightstand.

–

“It happened too quickly. I don't know what happened, really.” Charles plucked at the tape holding his IV to his hand, avoiding his reflection in the glass doorway. He didn't want to recognize himself. Oddly, he didn't feel broken. In some ways, he felt more vital. He could feel everything as though it were magnified, more intense than before. Well. Before. He glanced at himself once, wincing at how lifeless his legs seemed, even only after a few days. Maybe he was seeing what it felt like, all of the nerve connections dead because of a hole the size of a quarter between his two lower vertebrae, but there was nothing less about him. Or at least nothing less about him because he'd lost the use of his legs.

“Mr. Xavier, you're lying. It will be easier if you tell us the truth.”

Special Agent McTaggert was not exactly what Charles had expected. She was unnervingly patient and her smile had the sort of calming effect Charles's nurses needed but sorely lacked, something Charles thought would be both useful and detrimental in Moira McTaggert's line of work. He thought she was as honest as she seemed, her heart on her sleeve. Everything she thought was written across her face and Charles read there that she knew. Knew that it wasn't the fact that he was in the hospital in Albany, unable to do anything for himself until the doctors felt he was sufficiently recovered, that he barely ate and rarely spoke more than two syllables to the hospital staff.

“It's Charles.”

“Charles, then.” She tucked her pen into the slot on her clipboard and folded her hands over it. “Charles. I don't think you should tell me because it'll help our investigation, I think you should tell me because you need to tell someone.”

“You were there. What can I tell you that you don't already know?” Charles let his head fall back against his pillow, the room spinning and out of focus. He had done a fairly good job of keeping most memories at bay, but that was probably the Oxycontin. He didn't want to say anything about it, relive it, and make it real, breath life into it. If he kept it as it was, unexamined, he could go on living as if the last twenty seven days had never happened. Except there was a fissure in his chest, even without naming it, that would always remain, a permanent scar. Proof that he had underestimated the power of the past's effect on the present.

“Can you tell me anything—anything—about Erik Lehnsherr that may help our investigation? Where he planned on going? What he's been doing for the last month or so?” Her dark brown eyes were so wide, so forgiving. It made Charles feel sick. She thought he had been taken advantage of, lied to. He didn't have in it in him to confess that he had only been willfully, painfully naïve. That he deserved this.

“I—He's been with me for the last month. As for where he's going, I have no idea. He didn't tell me.”

“You know why he killed Sebastian Shaw?”

“Yes. And I think you do, too. If you were tracking him all this time, I imagine you had a pretty good idea of his personal history. But Agent McTaggert—”

“Moira.”

“Moira, then. Even if I _did_ know where he was, I wouldn't tell you. And I believe you know that.”

“I do. Can't you see that our loyalty to him is misguided though, Charles? He's the reason you're here.”

Charles smiled wearily, tears welling at the corners of his eyes. _You're stupider than you look, Charles Xavier_. “No, I'm the reason I'm here. He never meant—I was in the way. You saw. He—he stopped. He left me to you.”

Charles had touched the blood on Erik's shirt, black made blacker, his own blood, thick and syrupy and hot. He could taste it in the back of his mouth, the pain white hot, all through his spine like a never-ending electric shock, but it felt further removed than that blood. The blood held him in that moment, brought it crashing around his ears. “You shot me,” he'd said, his voice a croak. He felt like his lungs weren't getting air, straining against his spine, which had become an obstruction, hard and unmoving and growing like an infection, pushing against his organs. “You _shot_ me.”

“You got in the way.” Erik's voice was a near sob, choked, horrible, grating on every syllable. “ _Charles_. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I was—you were going to come with me. You were going to stay with me. By my side.”

“Go. Erik, please. Before—before they get here.” He could see the lights reflecting off the surface of the water already, their speedboats making waves. “Go.”

“I can't leave you.”

“You have to.”

Charles shook his head, snapping himself out of it. Special Agent McTaggert was at least doing a good job of pretending to be sympathetic. Charles understood how it all looked from the outside, how incredibly stupid and juvenile it made him seem, but he honestly couldn't think of anything else he would have done differently. It felt like an inevitable land slide, a trap set for him, but it also felt like the single most important thing he'd ever done in his entire life.

“Well, all right. I'll leave you alone. But if you hear from him, please notify me. I've left my card with the flowers Agent Levine brought you.”

Charles didn't expect to hear anything from him.

–

He bought himself an expensive German car that he would never be able to drive. He wrote Erik letters that he had nowhere to send. He went to Oxford and made friends and never talked about why he was in a wheelchair. He rarely went home, but he found out that the gas station had been rebuilt. He never heard from Erik, but he _felt_ him. When the seasons changed. When he woke up and didn't remember what he dreamt. When he tasted copper on his tongue. When he felt an engine rumble up and down his torso.

It hurt, but it was a kind of tugging, fond hurt. It never hurt any less, though. Even when he had spent a significant number of days he'd quantified as _days without_. It hurt the same. It always hurt the same.

–

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested, I also ranted about this fic at my [tumblr](http://finnwittrocky.tumblr.com/post/15234215105/if-i-ever-caused-you-trouble). The only significant knowledge you will gain is my mixed feelings about this and what I imagined their age difference to be, neither of which is very important, but feel free to check it out.


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